by Rawi Hage
I smiled back, looked him in the eyes, and faked a loud laugh, leaning my body away from the gun barrel. I pretended to admire the gun and slowly reached for his wrist and pointed the weapon towards the bed. Then I pulled his face towards me and said: Did you ever show that to your mommy? His expression changed as I started to twist his arm slowly. He got confused. I kept my reaction ambiguous, smiling at him, giggling, talking about what a beauty the gun was. Then I said, This beauty, lâche-le, I want to see it. I took it slowly out of his hand. I popped out the magazine quickly and pulled back the top, and the bullet in the firing chamber jumped onto the bed. I pressed the button and the chamber snapped back to its original position. I pointed it at Jean-Mathieu, and said, Now it is safer to put in someone’s face, no? He nodded, gazing at me with coke-glazed eyes. I found the bullet on top of the bed and inserted it back in the magazine. Shoved the magazine in. Pushed the security button down. Then I opened the closet, grabbed one of Jean-Mathieu’s cotton shirts, wiped the gun with it, and, laughing, I said to him, A baby like that has to be well taken care of, no? We do not want any fingerprints on it. I held on to the gun with the shirt and put it back on the shelf. Then I patted my palm on Jean-Mathieu’s face like a godfather, and said, Nice gun. You should always be careful where you aim it. Let’s go downstairs before the bowl with the white stuff gets lost in the noses of those brats.
I was the one who provided Sylvie’s friends with drugs. I bought the low-quality stuff from Big Derrick and over-charged the friends for it. They were corrupt, empty, selfish, self-absorbed, capable only of seeing themselves in the reflection from the tinted glass in their fancy cars. The women lived a hedonistic existence, not caring what the boys did as long as their surroundings were fashionable and presentable. I despised them; they admired me.
THERE WAS NOTHING IN the professor’s letters but lost, empty lives and illusions of escape from life’s ugliness. As I read them, I thought how some people must despise how they look. They must vomit when they see themselves naked, filthy, and wrinkled. They must be horrified to realize that they are made of skin, flesh that can be cut, boiled, and eaten, that they perspire, that fluid runs through them, that always, whatever they eat, no matter how presentable it is, the food that comes on fancy plates, that is savoured as it is illuminated by small candles on red tablecloths, that gives off the aroma of spices, will always, always be transformed into something ugly and repulsive. They are obsessive about masking their humanity, their dung, their droppings, their sweat, their curved toenails that grow and never stop growing. They despise this world and therefore they are engaged in a constant act of covering themselves up — covering up their faces, their feet, their nails, their breath, their decaying bodies. Though I discovered that one of Sylvie’s friends, Thierry, the heretic son of a well-known conservative politician, was fed up with it all. He could no longer see beauty in the make-believe. I gave his girlfriend, Linda, a few orgasms between chains and slaps, and she told me about Thierry and his obsession with feces. He eats them, she said. He calls them mes petits bonbons. He waits for me every morning outside the bathroom, reminding me not to flush the toilet. He hates it when things disappear down the drain. He scoops out the feces and I have to clean everything afterwards. C’est horrible!
Meanwhile, my poor naïf professor was charmed by le savoir-vivre, le savoir-faire, le savoir this and that. Peasant! Educated peasant! He must have thought that some of this beloved letter-writer’s glamour would spill over onto him and provide an ingenious cover for his deep desire to hide his misery, his provincial childhood. He was waiting for someone else to give him cover. He was too proud to do it himself, and too conscious of his own revulsion at life’s raw truth. At least I am not. I see people for what they are. I strip them of everything and see their hollowness. I strip them, and they are relieved of the burden of colour and disguise.
I walked to the kitchen, struck a match, and lit one of the professor’s letters. I watched it burn in the sink. A magnificent bonfire rose up and consumed it all: the Mediterranean shores, the fancy resorts, the rolling green landscape that stretched down to southern beaches, the old couples walking hand in hand, and the soft winds that passed by and carried the puffs of smoke out of my window. I looked up at the wall and I saw hundreds of roaches hypnotized, turned towards the light source, waving their whiskers in farewell to the fire.
ON FRIDAY AT WORK, Sehar was absent. I was very curious about her whereabouts, but I knew it was useless to ask the waiter or the cook or the dishwasher. Only her father knew the answer, and I could not ask him. What if she had suddenly grown older, I thought, and could stay home alone? She would walk the streets by herself, straight to her own house, and make her own food, get her own cup of tea and sugar. What if she decided to leave home and find rapture with her own kind and embrace the snow and long roads on her own?
I worked hard that night. I even made sure the owner saw me plunging my feet down the stairs and my hands down the toilet. Whether your daughter is here or not, sir, nothing will change my loyal behaviour and dedication to this God-fearing establishment of yours, I cunningly and implicitly said.
On my way home from the restaurant I turned south and with my cold fist knocked at Shohreh’s door. She opened the door and walked back inside without saying a word. I took off my shoes, left them at the entrance to bleed snow, and walked across the hardwood floor to the kitchen, following in my lover’s footsteps.
Do you want tea? she said.
Yes, please, I replied.
Are you hungry?
No, I ate at the restaurant.
Shohreh was in her pyjamas and her hair was pulled back and tied with an elastic band. Though her pyjama pants were loose-fitting, when she moved I could see the round curves of her ass. She stood at the sink washing a mug. I approached her and rested my hands on her buttocks. She didn’t say a word, and though my hands were cold, she did not protest. I reached for her thighs with one arm and my other arm curved around her waist. I kissed her exposed neck.
I could never predict what Shohreh would do or how she would react to my advances, so when I touched her, my heart sped up. I could never get used to her rejection, but still I always took my chances. This time the water rushed down the sink and a red sponge foamed between her fingers. The mug was in the sink, filling with water. I tried to turn her so that she faced me, but she resisted. She wanted me to hold her like a stranger she couldn’t see. Then she reached for the boiling kettle, killed its whistle, cut off its steam. She placed a full teapot on the counter, turned off the faucet, and sat down at the table.
You’ve been talking to Majeed, she said.
Who?
The taxi driver, Majeed.
Yes. He told you?
Shouldn’t he?
Yes, if he wants to. But there’s not much to say, really.
You know, you’re one nosy and intrusive man.
I saw him by accident. It is not like I went looking for the guy.
Still, you could have walked by. But no, you were curious.
Yes, I could’ve walked on by, but I thought it was rude that you did not introduce me to him that night at the club.
Do you want sugar with your tea?
No.
How is your work at the restaurant?
Good.
Finish your tea and let’s go to bed. You probably need a shower first. There is a towel in the closet. Do you have condoms?
Yes.
Show me.
In my jacket, over there.
Come to bed when you’re done in the shower. Shohreh turned off the kitchen light and walked down the hallway. I stayed sitting in the dark and it suited me. I could hear Shohreh enter her bedroom. A small light flashed from her room, passed through the bedroom doorway, and fell into the narrow hallway. I wrapped my fingers around my mug of tea. Then I lifted it up and laid it against my cold cheek. After a moment, I sipped the tea, but I did not finish the cup. I poured most of it in the sink and watched it gladl
y disappear. I walked to the closet and pulled out a towel. The bathroom floor was cold. I let the water run for a while until it got warm. I stripped off all my clothing and laid it out on the floor. I used Shohreh’s soap and shampoo, and her water fell on my face, rushed down my neck, my chest, my legs, and went under, taking with it all the restaurant leftovers, the kitchen smells, and the cold.
WHEN I GOT TO BED, Shohreh had her back turned to me.
Show me the condom, she said.
I gave it to her.
It is wrinkled. It is not good. She threw it on the floor.
But . . . I said.
Forget it. Just hold me.
I held her. She buried her face in my chest. Her hands were folded against her body, not touching me.
What did Majeed tell you?
That he was a journalist.
He was a good poet, too.
Tell me, I said. I am curious.
I know you are. I will tell you, but keep on holding me.
I squeezed her closer.
Majeed was my uncle’s best friend, Shohreh said. They started together this underground magazine after the revolution in Iran.
What kind?
A socialist, leftist, intellectual magazine. The mullahs could not pinpoint its source. Finally they found the printer. He was tortured until he told them my uncle’s name. They arrested my uncle. They tortured him, but he never gave them the names of any of his friends. Majeed was always grateful to him. My uncle was killed in the end. He was big and handsome, Shohreh said, and smiled. With straight black hair, so black that it almost seemed blue sometimes. He used to come to visit us and my mother would be so happy to see him. When her brother showed up, she would forget us, forget my father, forget the world. I used to watch her looking at him and forgetting herself. She never recovered from her brother’s death. They were very close. She changed. A few years later, I had to leave Iran. I came here and got in touch with Majeed. He helped me. He took care of me. He felt responsible and was protective. Until something happened.
She fell silent.
Tell me. I won’t settle for half the story, I said.
One curious soul you are, Shohreh sighed. Well, Majeed worked as a taxi driver, thinking it would be temporary until he learned French and found a job as a journalist or a teacher here. At first he kept writing poetry, and he tried to translate it into French, but I guess he did not see the point after a while. Maybe there was no interest in his work. He can recite Hafez. If you only understood Persian poetry and listened to him reciting, you would find it sublime. Anyhow, I was alone when I arrived here. I had no one here but him. He was the only one I could talk to. He cooked for me every day. Shohreh laughed, and said, At first I called him uncle. Then one day I came to visit him. He was on the sofa. He was smoking and drinking that night. He told me that he had always felt guilty about my uncle being dead while he, Majeed, could breathe in and exhale, and he held his cigarette up high. He did not cook and he did not eat that day. I went to the kitchen. He followed me and held my hand. Well, a few weeks after that, I found out that I was pregnant. Leaving a condom in a wallet in your back pocket when you’re a taxi driver for ten hours a day is not a good idea. I do not understand men and their pockets. Maybe they should all carry purses. She laughed again.
The baby?
No. Shohreh shook her head. I did not have it. I had an abortion.
And he . . . ?
He knew. I told him. He wanted me to keep the baby. I had the abortion without telling him. I went alone. I walked to the clinic alone, and on the way there I was wondering how my uncle would feel about it. I became a fatalist in that moment. I thought that maybe everything is predetermined, that maybe I should keep the baby. Maybe my uncle had died to save the seed of that man. But still I walked to the clinic. I entered the building. Alone. Every other woman had someone with her. I was alone. Now you know. Satisfied, my curious soul?
Shohreh pulled up the covers and turned off the light. I kept my arms around her.
IN THE MORNING, Shohreh woke me up and offered me coffee. She took a shower. When she left the bathroom with two towels around her body, I followed her wet steps. I stood at the door of her bedroom and watched her drying her hair. Naked, she leaned towards the mirror, her torso arched forward, her ass shining in the soft light that came in from a side window and gave it a three-dimensional, sculpted form. I took a step towards her.
With an eyeliner pencil poised on the lid of her eye, she mumbled: Stay there. I can’t. Besides, I am already late. I have no time for that now.
We walked together to the metro, neither of us saying a word. I went with her into the station. She used her pass on the turnstile and entered the tunnel. I watched her going down the escalator, descending towards the underground. I waited, hesitant to go out into the cold again. It was one of those days that have no mercy on your toes, that are oblivious to the suffering of your ears, that are mean and determined to take a chunk of your nose. It was a day to remind you that you can shiver all you want, sniff all you want, the universe is still oblivious. And if you ask why the inhumane temperature, the universe will answer you with tight lips and a cold tone and tell you to go back where you came from if you do not like it here.
Eventually I walked back towards home. Walking made me warm, but my face and toes were still freezing. I have to buy some shoes, I thought. The first thing to do when I get paid is to buy shoes. I arrived at the Artista Café and entered it without looking through the glass first like I usually do. Inside I saw Reza sitting alone at a table. He looked like shit. The professor and his entourage were not there. I sat down at Reza’s table. It took some time for either of us to say anything. Finally Reza lifted his coffee to his mouth, slurped, held the cup in the air, and with his usual mocking face he said: Are you going to order anything or will you tell the waitress to bring you water again?
Fuck off, I said.
Be careful. Now they carry bottled water. If you ask for a freebie you might end up paying for the opened bottle.
I reached for Reza’s cigarette box. He snapped it shut and put it in his pocket.
You look like shit, I said. I see white on the tip of your nostrils.
Reza stood up and ran to the bathroom. He came back a moment later and said, Very funny.
Rough night last night?
Yup.
Didn’t sleep? But I bet you had a good shit this morning.
Yup. The white stuff is good for your system.
Did you sleep on the couch or on a crowded bed?
On a crowded couch. I’m not too fond of orgies.
Bad experience with that?
Yes, your mother snores, Reza retorted.
Any leftovers from last night?
Yes, and you are not getting any.
I can hook you up with some real upper-crusters. I mean, not the petty dancers and restaurant musicians of your kitsch entourage. Real people. High end, high high end, first fucking class, I said, and joined my fingers together and turned my hand upwards and gestured like a Roman.
What, have you been promoted from kitchen sweeper/busboy in an Iranian restaurant to some kind of event promoter for high society?
Do you want to be hooked up or not?
Sure, show me how.
Where is your instrument? I asked.
At home.
Go and get it and meet me at Bernard and Park in an hour. Can you do that?
This better be good.
You won’t regret it, I said.
I went back home. On the way upstairs I passed my neighbour’s child screaming his lungs out. His mother was trying to comfort him, speaking to him in Urdu. Then she lost patience, started to scream, and jerked the child back inside the apartment. His cries were muffled, but still I could hear him sobbing through the door, and the stairs cascaded with tears all the way down to the street, and the snow melted with the kid’s sadness.
I sat on my bed, pulled out a book, and started to read, but I couldn’t concentr
ate. I read the same paragraph three times. What are the insects in my kitchen up to at this hour? I wondered. I walked to the kitchen, but no one was there. It was time to meet Reza so I went back out to the street and started to walk up towards Park and Bernard.
Reza was waiting inside the drugstore at the corner, waving at me. You are late. Don’t you know I can’t expose my instrument to this kind of cold? Do you know how old this instrument is? How far are we going?
Two, three blocks west.
He pulled out a scarf and wrapped it around the box he was carrying.
We walked together down the street, then entered a building, and I buzzed Sylvie twice, like I used to do when I delivered her groceries. She buzzed us in without asking who it was. When she saw me, she held the door half open, hesitating, slightly swinging it back and forth. Clearly she could not decide whether to shut it in my face or hear what I had to say.
It is important that we talk, I told her.
She glanced at Reza as if she was thinking about whether to embarrass me in front of a stranger. Then she said: Nothing is important between us anymore.
Her fake Parisian accent made this sound as if she were in a movie trailer for a French film.
I want to introduce you to my friend Reza here, I said, playing my part of the existentialist protagonist in a film noir, although I was missing a cigarette and some plumes of smoke.
I did not think you had any friends left, Sylvie said.
Reza, open your box, I said. Open it now, I snapped. To Sylvie I said, You have to hear Reza playing his Iranian instrument.
I knew Sylvie wouldn’t be able to resist anything foreign. The key word was Iranian, and so I stressed it when I said it aloud.
Sylvie paused, holding the door steady.
Reza opened his box and laid it on the stairs, pulled out his santour and put it on top of the box, pulled out two little spoons, and started to hit the strings and play.
Sylvie was instantly intrigued, and when she leaned her face against the edge of the door, I knew I had her.
